maybe sprout wings
by wereachforthestars
Summary: ghosts and clouds and nameless things / squint your eyes and hope real hard / maybe sprout wings


a/n: this is a character study about sam. it's au, and it's set in a universe where sam didn't leave the white house during the bartlet administration. also, there are some bartlet accomplishments referenced in this fic that didn't happen in _the west wing_ storyline.

 _maybe sprout wings_

he spends late nights shut in his office with the air conditioning blowing frigid air onto his desk and scattering loose papers until his office is icy, until he can't feel the stifling august heat that had pressed on his shoulders, that he'd suffocated on when the bang of gunshots had shattered the nighttime stillness.

words are his trade, and he builds them into castles and bridges, but he sometimes thinks, more often now than he used to, that they deserve someone better than him to be shaping them.

nights spent feeling harsh and cold and out of place in the soft light of the bullpen and the benevolent silver of the few stars outside his window that shine through the mirage of the d.c. lights.

on nights like these, toby can see the other sam, the one he never could until this year, the corporate lawyer who he can envision drinking alone in a sprawling, aloof mansion, steeped in unhappiness.

sam writes to release some of the feeling in him, and he has so much of it (he _feels_ so damn much) that he thinks if he ever tried to relinquish it by yelling, like josh or toby, he would rip jagged holes in the white house walls with his voice. he shoves all of it down until it's so far away that it scares him a little.

there are nights where he flinches at toby's spalding (sometimes he wishes toby would just go back to ringing that bell) and he feels his father's fists and tastes pavement and copper in his mouth.

there are nights where he wonders what the hell he's doing in this damn city, this beautiful, harsh, fiercely cutthroat city where he feels so out of place.

he loves the nights when he gets out of work late, exiting an empty white house at 3 a.m. to an abandoned parking lot and the amber halo of streetlights, the deserted square around 1600 pennsylvania.

it makes him less claustrophobic, and he can, just for a second trick himself into thinking that d.c. is the paradise he'd expected it to be.

it still surprises him, how crowded the buildings are, how close the offices are in the white house.

sometimes he forgets that america, this beautiful, strong country, is only a little over 200 years old. then again, he sometimes forgets that america is beautiful and strong, that it's anything but gridlock and slinging partisan blows in backdoor meetings.

he wonders when he stopped talking to josh.

he wonders when c.j. and toby became less confidants and more people to beguile with a forced smile.

he wonders when he started feeling that the world is so small it's like a cage.

he thinks he knows what government is now, and it's not a far cry from the stiff interiors of gage whitney.

it takes another campaign to breathe some life back into him.

he's sent because he's a bartlet veteran and he knows the finer points of messaging and how to appeal to voters.

escaping washington and being thrown into the open space and frigid air of new hampshire seems to loosen the tendrils that have coiled around his rib cage.

the manchester air is so cold it crystallizes in his lungs as he talks with mags, who's carrying her granddaughter as she talks to sam about the insurance she received from the healthcare bill they'd passed last year. "with the bills paid, i could focus on getting better," she says, beaming at him as little abby waves and coos in her arms, "and now i'm in remission and alive to see my granddaughter."

sam's been so numb for so long that he can't remember the last time he's felt, but he feels now, swallows back tears as michael welcomes sam into his house and takes a photo of his son holding hands with another boy out of his wallet. "my son, james, and his boyfriend connor. connor was-he was stoned on his way to school because he was holding hands with my son. america shouldn't still be acting like it's still the 1970s, and my son shouldn't have to call me in tears on prom night because his boyfriend is in an ambulance on the way to the e.r."

sam doesn't remember the last time he's had human contact, when he hasn't slunk away as the other staffers sat down and cracked opened beers and talked. he can't recall when his office door was last open, when he's allowed toby to buy him lunch or when he's spent his free time on toby's couch, but as he's being hugged by christine hansen, who whispers her tearful thanks for getting her daughter out of iraq and reunited with her family, he can feel the aloof jacket he'd slipped into fall to the floor and land in a tattered heap at his feet.

sam cries the night they win reelection, and he's exhausted but more idealistic and energized than he's been in a long, long time, than since the first campaign over four years ago.

toby, josh, and c.j. sit down besides him in the darkness of their campaign headquarters, and in the distance, they can see the glow of the washington monument. it makes sam feel so hopeful it hurts, instead of weary and drained.

"how're you feeling?" josh asks, and looks at sam, wearing a wild grin. sam can't help but fiercely grin back.

"what's next?" he asks.

he's back.

an additional note: the title is based on the song "maybe sprout wings" by the mountain goats.


End file.
